On a crisp Autumn Saturday, Thelma hums
And serves me a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes.
Years of curiosity had finally got the better of me
And I was in Tidioute for the Fishing Tournament.
Down the street, children with their daddies are baiting hooks
While mothers stand ready with Band-Aids and Neosporin.
Further down the street, in a field,
Marching bands are gearing up for the big parade.
The Sun is bright for the last full weekend of September;
Perhaps his last hurrah before we settle into cold.
An old woman, her face wrinkled like the pages of a well-used Book,
Sits blind, listening to the children’s voices
Rising melodically above the beat of that distant Drummer.
She tells me her name is Eunice when I stop at her porch,
And that this is her eighty-first Fishing Tournament Weekend.
A distant buzzing drowns out her voice.
The Shriners warm up their engines.
The shrill brassy note of the fire whistle rises above it all,
A clear trumpet taking center stage.
The Tournament is over; the Parade is just begun.
Again, not really how it all went down. Just… musing.